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GIFT  OF 


The  Call  of  California 

And   Other   Poems   &f  the   West 


Francis     Barton 


THE  CALL  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And  Other  Poems 
of  the  West 


FRANCIS  BORTON 


FOURTH  EDITION 
Revised  and  Enlarged 


RIVERSIDE  ::    ::  CALIFORNIA 
1921 


Copyright,  1917  and  1921,  by 
Francis  Borton 


From      the 

STUDIO  OF  CLYDE   BROWNE,  PRINTER 
Lot      Angrier 


en   ffirlrn 


444236 


THE  CALL  OF  CALIFORNIA 


HE  CALL  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

And  Other  Poems  of  the  West 
•By 

FRANCIS  BORTON 


The  Call  of  California 

HAVE  wandered  far  away, 
Many  a  long  and  weary  day, 

Through  the  scenes  of  which  I 

dreamed  in  days  of  yore ; 
But  I've  turned  at  last  to  rest 
In  the  land  I  love  the  best, 

And  it's   California  now, — forevermore, 
On   the   margin    of   her   shining,   golden 

shore, 

In  the  land  of  birds  and  blossoms, — ever 
more. 

CHORUS 

Oh !  my  California  land, 

Here  I  pledge  my  heart  and  hand, 

For  I  love  but  you  forever,  love  you  true ; 
With  the  roses  in  your  hair 
And  your  lark-songs  ev'ry  where, 

Underneath  your  dreamy  skies  of  cloud 
less  blue. 


The    Call    of    California 


From  your  Missions,  old  and  gray, 
At  the  crimson  close  of  day 

I  can  hear  the  bells  a-ringing,  soft  and 

low; 

While  the  gay  guitar  of  Spain 
Lends  a  plaintive,  sweet  refrain 

From  the   dim,  romantic   days   of   long 

ago, — 
Long  ago,  long  ago,  long  ago, 

From  the  Padres  and  the  Dons  of  long 
ago. 

From  Sierras,  thunder-riven, 
Shadowy  peaks  arise  to  heaven — 

Hooded   saints,  whose   names  are  bene- 

dicite ; 

From  the  canon's  purple  rim 
Downward  rolls  their  matin  hymn 

Over  golden-fruited  valleys  to  the  sea ; 

To  the  murm'ring  pines  beside  the  shin 
ing  sea, 

Till  it  mingles  with  the  music  of  the  sea. 

In  this  sunny  land  of  mine, 
With  its  honey,  oil  and  wine, 

And  its  poppy  fields  aflame  with  living 

gold; 

In  this  Eden  of  the  earth 
God  is  bringing  to  the  birth 

Greater   wonders   than    He   wrought   in 

days  of  old; 

In  the  bold  days  of  old,  the  days  of  gold, 
Than   He   fashioned   through   the   Argo 
nauts  of  old. 

(eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


We  have  wealth  upon  the  seas, 
Health  in  every  fragrant  breeze, 

Rivers  bursting  from  the  mountain's 

cloven  crest; 

We  have  leagues  of  yellow  grain — 
Many  a  cattle-covered  plain 

In  this  orange-blossom  kingdom   of  the 

West, — 
In  the  free,  unfettered,  giant-hearted 

West,— 

'Neath  the  blue  and  golden  banner  of  the 
West. 

And  it's  where  I  want  to  be, 
California's  calling  me 

Here  to  stay  forever,  never  more  to  roam ; 
Calling  me  to  come  and  rest 
On  her  glowing,  tawny  breast, 

When  her  fields  of  bloom  are  like  the 

billow's  foam; 
Where  the  silv'ry  olives  whisper-welcome 

home; 

While  along  the  hills  the  doves  are  call 
ing — home. 


(nine) 


The    Call    of    California 


At  the  Old  Mission 

C  HERE'S  a  sober  hush  in  these  solemn 
woods. 

There's  mystery  in  the  air, 
That  seems  to  pour  from  the  caves  of  death ; 
You  can  feel  it  everywhere. 

A  clear  stream  brawls  through  the  piney 

dell, 

Where  the  dove  mourns  all  the  day: 
And   the   breeze   dies   down   to   a  whisper 

here— 
Where  Padres  used  to  pray. 

The  waters  gush  from  the  broken  fount, — 

But  sadly,  quietly  now; 
For  gone   are   the  monks  who   led   them 
forth,— 

The  turf  is  green  o'er  their  brow. 

The  lizard  slides  on  the  tottering  walls, 

That  were  once  so  brave  and  strong; 
While  the  very  birds,  'round  these  ruins 
gray, 

Raise  but  a  plaintive  song. 
The  cells  where  brown  Franciscans  dwelt 

Are  ceiled  jyith  dank,  dark  moss; 
So  deeply  the^tooth  of  Time  hath  gone 

We  can  scarcely  find  a  cross! 
The  cross,  the  name  and  the  date  grow  dim, 

Only  the  faith  remains: 
The  monk  departs,  but  his  faith  endures 

Through  the   years  with   their  beating 
rains. 

(ten) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Seventeen  hundred  and  something  I  find 
In  a  cell  half  buried  by  leaves: — 

A   pine   tree   shoots  from   the   knee-worn 

stones. 
And  you'd  almost  say  it    grieves! 

The  new  must  prevail — the  old  give  place — 

And  yet — oh  heart  of  mine — 
There  is  something  that  speaks  to  me  out  of 
the  Past, 

When  I  stand  at  this  ruined  shrine. 

That  stirs  my  heart  to  its  uttermost  depths, 
But  the  reason  I  do  not  know, 

When  I  muse  on  these  symbols  of  faith  and 

love 
From  the  years  of  long  ago. 

Here  were  gardens  of  flowers  from  far-off 
Spain, 

The  olive,  the  palm  and  the  vine; 
Where  bees  and  butterflies  find  today 

But  sunlight's  golden  wine; 

Here   bells  that  clashed  in  the   old  gray 
towers; 

And  voices  of  prayer  and  praise; 
Where  brown  hands  wrought  in  glad  content 

In  those  dim,  forgotten  days. 

All  this — and  more — that  may  never  return, 
While  the  tides  march  up  and  down; — 

The  cowl  and  the  cord,  and  the  sandal  shoon 
And  the  Padres'  robes  of  brown. 

(eleven) 


The    Call    of    California 


But  ever  the  best  of  it  all  shall  bide, 
While  rains  slant  in  from  the  sea; 

The  gentleness,  kindness  and  patient  faith 
Live  yet  for  you  and  me. 

And  long  as  the  mercy  of  God  shall  pour 

Our  sea-fogs  from  His  hands. 
Will   dreams   and    deeds   of   the    "Mission 
days" 

Be  part  of  the  lore  of  these  lands. 


(twelve) 


Other    Poems    of    the     West 


Junipero  Serra 

®HEN  weaklings  feared  and  doubted, 
While  unfaith  scoffed  and  flouted. 
Thou  still  didst  trust, 
And  in  the  dust, 
Prone  on  thy  face,  didst  pray, 
Till,  lo!  the  sudden  ray 
Of  hope, — and  ev'ry  lip. 
Rejoicing  cried:   "The  ship!" 
Deep  in  eternal  granite  be  it  graved 
How,  in  that  hour,  was  California  saved. 

T         v         v 

Junipero  Serra  sleeps  today 
By  the  mission  walls  at  Carmel  Bay; 
His  task  well  done,  he  takes  his  rest, 
With    thin    hands    crossed    on    his    saintly 

breast : 

While  brown  hills  welcome  the  winter  rains, 
Or  lark  songs  ripple  o'er  poppied  plains; — 
His  dreams  and  deeds  in  the  days  of  old 
Are  part  of  the  lore  of  our  land  of  gold. 


(thirteen) 


The    Call    of    California 


The  West 

LONG  our  blue  Sierra's  wall, 

No  moldering  castles  rest; 
But  there  the  Redman's  Thunder-bird 
Hath  built  his  lonely  nest. 

No  hoary  donjons,  foul  with  crime, 

Oppress  the  good,  clean  sod 
Where  live-oaks  meet,  with  knotted  arms, 

The  blazing  bolts  of  God. 

Instead  of  doubtful  titles  stamped 
On  pride's  dim  vellumed  page. 

The  sullen  grizzly  here  hath  left 
The  claw  marks  of  his  rage. 

No  silken  halls,  no  softness  here, 

No  courtiers,  false  as  hell; 
But  from  the  echoing  granite  gorge 

The  panther's  deadly  yell! 

Here,  laws  unflattering,  primal,  harsh ; 

The  desert's  scorching  breath; 
Here,  thorn,  fang,  claw  and  scalping  knife- 

The  crimson  trail  of  death! 

And  what  are  man-made  kings  and  courts, 

With  cheap,  brief  honors  set, 
Where,  in  the  red,  raw  clay  of  things, 

God's  thumb-prints  yet  are  wet? 

(fourteen) 


Other    Poem  3    of    the    West 


Amid  these  awful  solitudes. 

With  skies  so  still  and  blue, 
Are  held  such  deadly,  fierce  debates 

As  minstrels  never  knew. 

Here  howling  winds  of  ocean  meet 

The  wild  winds  of  the  sky, 
While  vast,  dim  shapes  from  desert  wastes 

Their  spirals  wheel  on  high. 

Cliff  calls  to  cliff;  th'  avalanche 

Replies  in  thunders  loud, 
While  shafts  of  blinding  lightning  split 

The  swirling,  inky  cloud, 

That   bursts,   and   ploughs  the  mountains 

down, 

The  salt  plain's  hissing  sands, 
Till  fresh-torn  canon  gulfs  reveal 
Earth's  granite  swaddling  bands! 
*          *          * 

And  here  are  men,  sons  of  thy  strength, 

Oh,  western  land  of  mine, 
Gay,  tender,  careless,  swift  and  wild, 

But  upright  as  the  pine. 

Serene,  clear-eyed,  of  Spartan  speech. 

The  breed  of  men  out  here, 
Who've   trailed   with   hunger,   thirst      and 
death, 

But  never  met  with  fear. 

The  wide,  free  winds  are  in  their  hearts, 
The  deep-voiced  torrent's  roar, 

(fifteen) 


The    Call     of    California 


The  solemn  stillness  of  the  woods, 
Beside  the  lonely  shore. 

They  need  no  finger-posts  for  faith; 

No  self -sure  go-between; 
They  look  God  in  the  face  and  smile; 

Their  rugged  hearts  are  clean. 

They  pluck  the  gray  wolf  from  his  den; 

They  tire  the  grizzly  down, 
Or  peacefully  their  harvests  reap 

Along  the  foothills  brown. 

They  beat  the  mountain  into  dust; 

They  burst  its  ribs  apart; 
Their  laughter  rings  Homeric  when 

They  clutch  its  golden  heart! 

Alone  they  win  the  chill,  still  heights, 

By  mountain  sheep  untrod; 
They  gaze  abroad,  they  bare  their  brows 

And  shout,  "Hurrah  for  God!" 

Oh,  little  folk,  who  cringe  and  hedge. 

Who  cannot  understand, 
They  tread  a  broader  trail  than  yours 

Across  our  Sunset  Land, 

Where  man  is  kin  to  peak  and  star, 
«  Jhe  wide  Plain's  lonely  space; 
Where  oft  they  ride  so  close  to  God 
They  meet  Him — face  to  face ! 

(sixteen) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Mt.  Rubidoux  at  Dawn 

HE  mocking  birds  are  singing  in  the 

euoalvptus  tops, 
It's  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  fog  is 

everywhere ; 
The  sounds  of  nature's  wakening  come  to  us 

tunefully 
All  softly  muffled  by  the  misty  air. 

The  "cotton  tails"  are  hopping  in  the  barley 

by  the  road ; 
Behind   a    bush    the   clucking    quail   are 

bunched — about  to  fly; 
The  liquid,  melting  melody  of  joyous  meadow 

larks 

Like  silvery  bubbles  floats  along  the  sky. 
The  "ragged  robin"  roses  spill  their  nectar 

on  the  grass 
Before  the  robber  bees,  who  love  the  sun, 

are  out  of  bed: 
While  drowsy  poppies  wait  to  pour  libations 

to  their  lord, 
When  in  the  East  he  rears  his  radiant 

head. 
The   shimmering,    emerald    laces    of   the 

queenly  pepper  tree 
Are  strewn  with  dewy  pearls  and  fringed 

with  flakes  of  scarlet  flame; 
While  the  orange,  dark  and  lustrous,  in  her 

robes  of  green  and  gold, 
Hath  sent  through  all  the  earth  this  val 
ley's  name. 

(seventeen) 


The     Call     of     California 


The  golden-dusted  mustard  pours  its  fra 
grance  down  the  hill. 
To  where,  in  marshy  tule  beds,  the  noisy 

blackbirds  throng: 
The  jangle  of  the  cattle  bells  comes  faintly 

from  below 
Where  the  lazy  Santa  Ana  rolls  along. 

How  sweet  the  button-sage's  breath  upon 

the  quiet  air; 
How  fresh  and  clean  the  odor  from  the 

haunting,  whispering  pines: 
While,  spread  in  wild  profusion,  where  the 

gray  old  boulders  cling, 
The  splendor  of  the  morning-glory  vines ! 

But  now  the  fog  is  ebbing  fast  along  Juru- 

pa's  hills, 
As  over  San  Jacinto  gleam  the  banners  of 

the  sun: 
Far  up  on  foot-worn  Rubidoux  a  shining 

cross  appears, 

The  symbol  that  the  earth's  long  night  is 
done. 


(eighteen) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Mission  Inn 

its  ivied  walls  and .its  cloistered  halls 
And  a  coolness  and  quietness  all  its  own; 
From  its  shady  bowers  to  its  tuneful  towers 
It's  a  fair  dream  fashioned  in  good  gray 

stone ; 

With  a  high  ideal  everywhere, 
With  a  fineness  of  sentiment  in  the  air. 
And  music — that  soothes  like  the  soul 
of  prayer. 

There's  bread  and  meat — for  a  man  must 

eat — 
But    there's  more  than  that  to  make  one 

whole : 

The  builder's  dream  had  a  broader  theme 
In  this  caravansarai  for  the  soul. 
"Sursum  corda,  "we  seem  to  hear 
From  good  St.  Francis,  standing  near, 
"Lift  up   your  hearts,   and   make   good 
cheer." 

The  saints  are  gone,  yet  they  still  live  on; 

Still  is  their  gentle  influence  felt; 
From  niche  and  nook  they  kindly  look, 
As  when  Junipero  Serra  knelt 

And  told  to  Indians  swart  and  wild 
The  wondrous  tale  of  the  dear  Christ- 
child— 
And  the  love  of  Mary,  the  mother  mild. 

When  the  day  grows  dim.  and  the  vesper 
hymn 

(nineteen)  . 


The    Call     of    Californi 


So  tunefully  sounds  in  the  silvery  chimes, 

I  seem  to  hear — far  away  and  clear — 

Voices  that  speak  from  the  olden  times: 

Of  sacrifice,  better  than  gold  or  fame, 

Of  love  that  burned  like  a  fragrant 

flame — 
Till  my  selfish  heart  is  faint  for  shame. 

Not  for  me  alone  is  this  sermon  in  stone, 
Nor  only  to   me   do   these   mute   things 

speak : 

Full  many  a  heart  has  received  its  part, 
The    quiet    tear    glistened    on    many    a 

cheek ; 

Many  a  pilgrim  has  paused  to  say: 
"I'm  glad  my  heart  ever  found  the  way 
To  the  Mission  Inn  at  the  close  of  day.'1 


(twenty) 


Other    Poems     of    the    West 


Down  the  Grade  with  "Bob" 

(1874) 

>T<E'VE  topped  the  grade,  now  for  the 

Vly      other  side; 

Sling  the  buckskin  in  'em — let  'er  slide. 

We're  full  of  'Frisco  folks  and  tenderfeet 
That  wants  some  early  stagin' — here's  their 
treat. 

Straighten  them  tugs — don't  let  'em  drag 

the  dust — 
Hi  there!  you  trottin'  pinto,  lope  er  bust. 

A  bunch  of  broncs,  and  hellions  every  one- 
Hoop-la,  git  out-fergit  yer  shoulder's  skun. 

Oh  we're  all  right:  my  lady,  dry  yer  tears, 
Sit   down,  my  lord,   and   chase   away  yer 
fears ; 

The  road  is  twelve  feet  wide  from  bluff  to 

ledge 
With  manzaniller  strung  along  the  edge. 

Why.  man  alive,  a  Chinymun  at  night 
Could  strike  the  trail  here — why  it's  out  o' 
sight! 

Git  out  p'  here — you  leaders,  switch  yer 

tails, 
Yer  haulin'  Uncle   Sammy's  sacred  mails; 

Stretch  them  there  traces,  limber  up  yer 

heels, 
No  moseyin'  er  I'll  show  you  how  it  feels. 

(twenty-one) 


The    Call    of    California 


No  bitin'  now — you  lop-eared  antelope — 
You  old  kyoty — bust  it  down  the  slope; 

Jump    through    them    collars — hump   yer 

backs  'n  git — 
You  haven't  turned  a  hair — now  chaw  the 

bit. 

Thanks,   stranger,   yes, — I   surely   guess   I 

could 
Smoke  a  cigar-gimme  a  light-that's  good; 

There  haint  no  tin-foil  cabbage  leaves  to 

that^— 
A  Mexican  cigar — I'll  bet  my  hat! 

You  see,  I  used  tuh  run  'em  through,  you 

know 
Over  the  Rio  Grande  from  Mexico, 

Some  years  before  that  old  wheel  plug  was 

born — 
But  here's  our  hangout — Gabriel  toot  yer 

horn; 

Grubstake  Junction,  where  they'll  treat  you 

white, 
The  bar-room's  blazin' — strangers,  will  you 

light? 


(twenty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Road  by  Panama 

E  old  road,  the  gold  road,  the  road  by 
Panama, 

As   lurid,   ghastly   as  the  path   that  Dante 
dimly  saw, 

Hemmed  about  by  nameless  terrors,  haunted 
by  alarms, — 

The    ghosts    of    treasure-seekers    spent,   of 
spectral  men-at-arms. 

A  narrow  way  and  rugged,  wild,  where  jun 
gle  shadows  spread 

O'er  many  a  bubbling,  slimy  pool  and  hide 
ous  blotch  of  red. 

Amid  its  ooze  the  rotting  bones  of  famished 
Spanish  mules, 

The  grinning  skulls  of  picaroons  and  for 
tune's  cheated  fools. 

The  venomed  snake,  the  vulture  keen,  the 
deadly  fly  are  there, 

And  fetid  heaps  whose  breath  is  death  upon 
the  sickly  air. 

*         *         * 

Along  the  hot,  dark  forest  aisles  again  we 
seem  to  hear 

The  rush  of  feet,  the  clash  of  blades,  the 
hoarse-voiced  buccaneer, 

The  whistle  of  the  slaver's  whip,  the  screams 
of  tortured  men, 

Who  sink  beneath  the  bloody  lash  to  never 
rise  again; 

The  silver-laden,  grunting  mules,  with  plun 
der  from  Peru, 

(twenty-three) 


The    Call    of    California 


The  shouts  of  conquering  Cortez'  men,  of 

Drake  and  Morgan's  crew; 
Pizarro's    Spaniards,    haggard,    weak,    with 

fear  in  every  eye, 

Who  may  not  stay  nor  sleep  for  ever  "on 
ward"  is  the  cry; 
Who    fear    the   gloom    where    glows   the 

hounded  Indian's  sleepless  hate, 
Where  mutilated  galley-slaves  like  panthers 

lie  in  wait; — 
And  so  full  oft  they  cross  themselves,  to 

stout  San  Yago  pray, 
As  on  they  urge  with  curses  foul  through 

the  hot,  weary  way, 
Hugging   tight    their    hard-won    spoils   and 

fainting  with  desire 
To  tread  the  streets  of  Panama  and  lap  its 

liquid  fire; 
Where  painted  harpies  watch  for  them,  with 

baleful  eyes  and  bold, 
To   strip  them  clean  with  iron  claws  and 

leave  them  stark  and  cold. 


Oh!  the  old  road,  the  gold  road,  the  road  by 

Panama, 
A  rosary  of  every  crime,  where  lawlessness 

was  law, 
Where  harvestings  of  piracies  on  sea  and 

land  went  by, — 
Thrice  cursed  treasure  black  with  groans 

and  ravished  women's  cry; 
The  minted   sweat   and  blood   of  branded, 

scarred,  Peruvian  slaves, 

(twenty-four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  riflings  of  their  temples,  yea,  the  win- 
no  wings  of  their  graves! 

*  *         * 

And  later,  by  this  wild  highway,  with  daunt 
less  hearts  aflame, 

The  boisterous,  bearded  Argonauts  from 
California  came; 

In  motley  rags  with  belts  and  bags  of  un 
stained  virgin  ore 

Stripped  from  the  shining,  granite  ribs  of 
Eldorado's  shore! 

*  *         * 

Aye,   many   a   golden   trickle  ran,   through 

many  a  fearful  year 
To  swell  the  rich  Pactolus  tide  of  this  Hell's 

gullet  here. 
But    all    is    hushed    and    quiet    now:    they 

passed  and  left  no  trace, 
And  in  the  solemn  forest  shade  no  eye  may 

mark  their  place. 
They  dreamed  their  dream,  they  wrought 

their  deed  of  valor  or  of  shame, 
To  share  alike,  some  few  brief  years,  an 

infamy  of  fame! 


(twenty-five) 


The    Call    of    California 


Mexico 


[HE  is  circled  with  lakes,  she  is  shad 
owed  hy  mountains, 
5now-mantled,  pine-plumed,    under-girded 

with  flame; 

She  is  young,  she  is  old  as  her  sister  of  Egypt, 
She  is  ever,  forever,  yet  never  the  same. 

Fresh   is  her   cheek  as  her  green  curving 

valleys, 
Care  free  her  heart  as  her  brown  babes  at 

rest; 
Bright  are  her  hopes   as   the   eyes  of  her 

daughters, 

Her  passion  as  fierce  as  her  storms  from 
the  West. 

Her  story  as  sad  as  the  gloom  of  her  "northers," 
Her  struggle  as  epic  as  ever  was  told; 

Her  heroes  are  laureled  in  valor's  Valhalla, 
With  coronals  woven  of  nopal  and  gold. 

Oh,  Mexico!    heiress  of  cycles  of  sorrow, 
Of  jungle-grown  hieroglyphs,  meaningless 
now, 

Of  histories,  cities,  dumb,  buried  forever, 
Of  mysteries  dark  as  the  runes  on  thy  brow. 

Glorious  with  rare  carven  gems  from  the  ages, 

Waiting  the  wonderful  years  yet  to  be, 
Clasping  thy  brown  hand  we  hail  thee,  our 

sister, 

Thou  queen,  silver  throned  by  thine  opal 
esque  sea. 

(twenty-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


The  Land  of  the  Arriero 


valleys  are  deep  and  mountains 
are  high 
And  the  mule-track  hangs  like  a  streak  in 

the  sky  — 
Like  a  vulture's  path  through  the  thin,  still 

air 

Far  over  the  "hot  lands,"  shimmering  there; 
Where  afar  and  faintly  the  music  swells 
Of  quick-stepping,  grey  mules'  silvery  bells; 
Where  pine  trees  yield  to  the  pine-apple's 

gold 
And   billows   of   bloom   o'er   the   earth   are 

rolled; 
Where  the  trees  drip  honey,  the  sod  sweats 

death 
And  sucks  out  your  life  with  its  vampire 

breath; 
Where  the  warm,  green  heart  of  that  lotus 

land 

Gives  all  with  a  care-free,  generous  hand,  — 
Tis  there  that  the  gay  arriero's  found, 
Where  he  takes  his  ease  on  his  own  home 

ground. 

Where  cataracts  thunder,  the  parrots  scream, 
And  gorgeous,  wonderful  butterflies  gleam, 
While  marvelous  birds  in  their  glowing  wings 
Wear  the  royal  splendors  of  Aztec  kings; 
Where  the  wild  orange  drops  its  acrid  fruit 
Near  the  strangled,  writhing  ceiba's  root; 
Where  the  hiss  is  heard  of  the  spotted  snake 

(twenty-seven) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


As  iguanas  slide  through  the  bamboo  brake ; 
Where  the  tapir  crunches  the  river  reeds 
And  the  jaguar  leaps  as  the  red  deer  feeds; 
And  the  cayman  basks  on  the  sun-baked  bar, 
While  life,  as  you  knew  it,  seems  dim  and 

far;  — 

From  there  do  the  swart  arrieros  come, — 
To  those  mystical  beauties  blind  and  dumb. 

They  laden  their  mules  with  rich,  fragrant 

freights : 

Coffee,  vanilla,  fruits,  parrots  in  crates, 
Sugar,  tobacco,  raw  liquor  in  casks, 
A  mouthful  of  which  arriero  asks 
To  lighten  his  heart  up  the  steep,  rough  road, 
'Neath  the  scorching  sun  and  the  heavy  load. 

Lithe  as  a  tigre  and  tireless  of  limb, 
Clean  moulded  in  bronze,  ev'ry  inch  of  him, 
Son  of  the  sunland,  gay,  careless  and  wild, 
Aztec,  fierce,  passionate,  nature's  own  child, 
His  thirty  stout  mules  upward  grunting  go 
Over  the  narrow  trail,    steady  and  slow; 
Snuffing  the  pathway  that  clings  to  the  edge 
Of  the  sheer  down-dropping,  slippery  ledge; 
The  trail  that  was  known  to  Cortez  of  old 
Who  dreamed  of  dim  valleys  paven  with  gold, 
While  crushing  the  land  'neath  his  iron-shod 

heel 
When  the  red  years  rang  to  the  clash  of 

steel! 

How  silvery  sweet  ring  the  mule-bells  there, 
When  the  dew  yet  freshens  the  morning  air! 

(twenty-eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


How  merrily  sound  the  songs  of  the  South, 
As    carelessly    flung    from    the    muleteer's 

mouth: 

Songs  of  the  soil,  of  the  heart,  of  the  sun, 
Of  dulce  amor  or  partida  won, 
With  many  a  sighing  and  ay  de  mi, 
In  the  high-pitched,  Mexican  nasal  key! 

He's  a  good  paisano,  I  know  him  well, 

He  hopes  there's  a  heaven,  is  sure  there's  a 

hell, 

Trusts  in  the  padre,  remembers  to  pray 
To  the  blessed  saints  in  his  own  blind  way, 
And  slaves  for  his  amo  for  scanty  pay. 
He   climbs   the   wild   mountains   in   sun  or 

shower 
And    cares    for   his   mules    in    the    darkest 

hour; 

His  *  amo  would  grieve  for  an  injured  mule, 
As  for  him,  why,  he  is  only  a  fool, 
Like  a  simple  hero  of  low  degree 
He  dies  for  his  charge  if  need  there  be 
And   returns   to   his   palm-thatched   hut   no 

more 
Where  his  brown  babes  roll   on   the  cool, 

dirt  floor. 


(twenty-nine) 


The    Call    of    California 


A  Thunder  Storm  in  Puebla 

EROM    morning     prayer     until     mid-af- 
1&      ternoon 

The  August  sun  has  scorched  us  to  a  swoon; 
The  languid  flowers  droop,  the  pepper  trees 
Respond  but  feebly  to  the  faint,  hot  breeze. 

The  brown  hills  are  a  quiver  with  the  heat: 
Hugging  the  scanty  shade  of  every  street 
The  dogs  slink  by  too  spent  to  scratch  or 

bark; 
Awhile  the  beggars  cease  their  whine,  when 

hark  — 
Down  from  the  mountain  rolls  a  long,  deep 

roar 
And  wise  "Poblanos"  shut  and  bar  the  door. 

In  thrice  three  credos  old  Malinche's  brow 
Is  swirled  in  ebon  darkness,  where  but  now 
The  southern  sun  poured  down  a  flood  of 

gold 
O'er  shattered  crag  and  wrinkled  lava  fold. 

With   tropic   fierceness   falls   th'   onrushing 

gloom, 

Swiftly  the  bright  day  yields  its  virgin  bloom 
To  the  marauder,  thunder-browed,  whose 

power 
Swells  black  to  heav'n  in  this  tempestuous 

hour. 

Now  latch  the  shutters,  chain  the  heavy  door, 
Call  to  the  Virgin,  all  the  saints  implore 

(thirty) 


Other     Poems    of    the    West 


As  shouting  winds  and  lightning's  crooked 

prong 
Urge  the  slow-footed,  bellowing  clouds  along. 

Jesus,  Maria,  hearken  to  the  rain 
Flooding  the  patio  while  on  every  pane 
The  hailstones  beat  the  very  fiend's  tatoo, 
And  every  dust-clogged  water-spout  a-spew! 
Most  Blessed  Virgin,  we  confess  our  faults, 
(Maria,  vida  mia,  bring  my  salts), 
Where  is  Francisco,  lazy  lout,  to  burn 
The  blessed  palm  leaves  in  the  incense  urn? 

No  time  for  chatter  now,  nor  idle  talk, 
When    sulphur-breathing    demons    near    us 

walk, 

"Sweet  Guadalupe,  help  us  all  today, 
To  thee  we  pobres  pecadores  pray." 

Then  suddenly,  in  one  long,  furious  blast, 
Of  lightning,  thunder,  hail,  the  storm  has 

passed. 

The  sun  appears,  and  in  the  western  skies 
The  rainbow  path  that  slopes  to  Paradise! 

Gone  are  the  dolour,  darkness,  and  the  gloom, 
Gone  every  thought  of  an  unwelcome  tomb: 
Vaya,  mi  alma,  now  the  storm  is  o'er, 
Bid  the  portero  haste,  unbar  the  door, 
Blow  out  the  candles,  we  shall  not  be  late, 
The  tandas  won't  begin  till  half-past  eight. 


(thirty-one) 


The    Call    of    California 


Taking  the  Veil  (Mexico) 


unbound  hair  and  brown  feet  bare, 
A  taper  in  her  hands, 
Within  the  gloomy  convent  church 
A  dark-eyed  maiden  stands, 

All  corpse-like  in  a  clinging  shroud, 

A  cross  upon  her  breast,  — 
The  hour  hath  come  to  bid  farewell 

To  all  she  loveth  best. 

Her  virgin  heart  is  dry  as  dust, 

Her  face  is  like  the  dead; 
The  church  hath  laid  its  withering  touch 

Upon  her  fair  young  head. 

Her  thin  hand  wears  a  golden  band,  — 

The  mystic  wedding  ring 
That  seals  her  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 

Her  Lover,  Bridegroom,  King. 

The  air  is  heavy,  damp  and  cold, 

The  candles  dimly  gleam 
While  priests  about  the  altar  go 

Like  figures  in  a  dream. 

They  chant  the  service  for  the  dead, 

For  her  so  wan  and  still, 
With  Kyrie  eleison 

From  boyish  voices  shrill. 

O!   hapless  maid,  deceived,  betrayed, 
The  victim  of  a  vow, 

(thirty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


To  wither  in  a  living  death, 
Like  Jephtha's  daughter  now! 

No  lover's  kiss,  no  mother's  bliss 
Her  frozen  heart  may  know, 

Within  the  convent's   coffin   walls 
Through  years  of  dumb-lipped  woe. 

No  more  on  earth  may  she  behold 

Each  well-beloved  face; 
No  more  the  circle  of  the  home 

Shall  hold  for  her  a  place; 

All,  all,  upon  the  altar  there 

Hath  now  been  sacrificed, 
And  so  farewell  to  life  and  love, 

Farewell,  thou  bride  of  Christ. 

One  last  wild  look  at  love  and  life, 
One  shriek, — and  that  is  all, 

A  doleful  bell  rings  like  a  knell, 
The  sable  curtains  fall. 


(thirty -three) 


The    Call    of    California 


Old  House  in  Puebla,  Mexico 

hundred  years  are  in  these  walls, 
These  iron-bound  doors  of  oak, 
Whose  rugged  strength  has  oft  withstood 
Sir  Robber's  shrewdest  stroke. 

The  knocker  wears  a  demon's  head, — 

Jesu,  and  well-away; 
A  goatish  devil,  bearded,  horned, 

Let  him  who  knocketh  pray 

,   . 

To  where  above,  in  battered  niche, 

The  good  St.  Francis  stands, 
Marked  Christwise  in  his  blessed  feet 

And  in  his  loving  hands. 

The  Moorish  front  is  gay  with  tiles 

Of  yellow,  green  and  blue, 
Inwrought  in  cunning,  quaint  designs 

As  ancient  craftsmen  knew. 

Rude  gargoyles  grin  from  jutting  eaves, 

A  spout  of  hammered  lead 
Shoots  the  flat  roof's  flood  to  the  street 

Through  gaping  lion's  head. 

Above  the  door  an  ancient  crest, 
Carved  in  the  old  grey  stone: — 

A  tiger  couched,  a  helmet  barred, 
A  fist  that  grips  its  own! 

They  say  the  house  is  haunted,  cursed, 
And  show  a  bloody  stain 

(thirty-four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Linked  with  a  tale  of  love  and  gold 
From  the  old  Spanish  Main. 

Great  spiders  lurk  in  corners  dim, 

Foul  bats  breed  in  the  wall; 
At  night,  when  worm-gnawed  timbers  creak, 

Faint  whispers  fill  the  hall, 

From  lips  of  dust,  from  love  betrayed, 
From  woman's  vengeful  heart, 

Whose  clinging  curse  from  these  old  stones 
May  nevermore  depart. 


A  Mexican  Beggar 

kECAUSE  he  was  so  old,  deformed  and 

poor, 

Because  he  bent  so  meekly  his  hoar  head, 
Because  he  bore  the  dignity  of  sorrow 
AS  some  king  begging  in  a  beggar's  guise, 
Because  he  was  so  thankful  for  the  trifle 
Carelessly    tossed    him    from    my    surplus 

store: — 

Because  of  his  bare  feet  and  tattered  rags — 
His  thin  grey  locks  and  utter  misery, 
I  rested  but  uneasily  that  night, 
Dreaming  of  Dives,  Lazarus  and  their  lesson. 
Of  creed  and  church,  of  apostolic  faith, 
Of  orthodox  confessions  and  professions — 
Strange  a  street  beggar  should  disturb  me 

so! 

(thirty-five) 


The    Call    of    California 

A  Glimpse  of  Mexico 
at  Home 

E  windows  frown  with  heavy  bars  of 
iron; 

The  great  zaguan  is  like  some  castle  door, 
Spiked,  bolted,  chained  and  solid  as  the  wall, 
With  quaint  bronze  knocker  o'er  the  wicket 
hung. 

For  there  were  times,  whose  mem'ry  still  is 

fresh, 
When  great  need  was  of  such  stout  doors  as 

these, — 
When  bold  Sir  Robber,  loud-voiced,   sword 

in  hand, 
Knocked  not  so  gently  as  we  knock  today. 

Three  centuries  are  seen  in  this  zaguan 

Of  evolution,  liberty  and  law; 

And  twenty  centuries  are  in  the  cry 

Of  the  portero,  fumbling  at  the  bar, 

Who   calls    quien    es?   before   he    slips   the 

chain, 
As  porters  in  the  dim  days  of  the  Christ. 

Yo   Soy,   we   cry, — the   old   man   hears   and 

knows 

The  accents  of  his  patron's  welcome  voice. 
Drops  the  huge  chain,  slides  back  the  bar, 

and  we 
Are  in  the  patio  of  a  Mexic  home! 

(thirty-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Coolness  and  rest;  a  fountain  in  the  midst, 
Decked     with     quaint     carvings,     murmurs 

drowsily; 

The  solid,  whitened  arches  all  about, 
Have   brought   us   to   the   ancient    Moorish 

Spain, 

Shutting  us  from  the  modern  world  outside, 
Into  the  home  life  of  Cid  Campeador! 

Flowers  ev'rywhere,  in  Talavera  pots, 

In    shattered    olios,    broken    sugar    moulds, 

While   orchids,   cactus,   bloom   in   great   ox 

horns 
Hung  from  rude  spikes  thrust  in  the  old 

stone  wall. 

Chatter  of  women  'round  the  plashing  fount, 
Brown,  shirtless  ninos  creeping  in  the  sun; 
And  over  all,  laughter  and  glad  content, — 
Happy,  though  poor,  these  simple  Mexicans. 

Within  the  house  we  find  the  constant  lamp 
Of  turnip  oil  before  the  Virgin  placed, — 
Sweet  symbol  of  a  faith  that  will  not  die; 
Chromos  of  hell  and  heaven,  angels,  fiends, 
The  good  man  borne   to   glory,  while  foul 

devils 
All  hoofed  and  horned,  bear  the  bold  sinner 

hence, 

To  red  hell  shrieking, — all  in  vivid  hues, — 
No  place  for  "higher  criticism"  there. 

The  almanac  hangs  open  on  the  wall 
To   mark   the   saint's   days   of   the   mother 
church ; 

(thirty-seven) 


The    Call    of    California 


Rude  charcoal  burners  from  the  pine-clad 

slopes 

Of  dark  Malinche,  farmers,  artisans, 
The  rich  and  poor,  all  guard  the  "holy  days," 
And  even  butchers  close  their  reeking  stalls. 

You  cannot  know,  you  cannot  understand 
You  careless  tourist  from  the  outside  world, 
You  do  not,  cannot  feel  the  inner  life 
That  throbs  in  Mexico,  the  guide-books  fail, 
They  may  not  give  the  "open  sesame: — " 

The  patios  where  crystal  fountains  drip, 
Where  women  gossip  when  the  air  is  cool, 
The  courtesy,  the  kindness,  filial  love 
That  links  the  home  hearts  here  in  Mexico. 

From  polished  hoop  the  parrot  swings  and 

screams 

In  fluent  Spanish  all  the  drowsy  day; 
The  lavanderas  swash  their  clothes  near  by 
Where  brown  babes  crawl,  in  naked  comfort 

free, — 
"Race  suicide,"  a  thing  undreamed  of  here! 

Compadres  and  comadres,  wrinkled,  grey, 
Still  use  the  customs  of  old  Abram's  time, 
Poetic,  patriarchal, — poured  round  all 
The  silver  melody  of  Spanish  speech! 

Servants  grown  old  in  service  of  their  friend, 
Their  lord  and  amo,  master  of  their  lives 
Who  serve  for  love  and  the  sweet  "nine's" 

sake. — 
Faithful  till  death, — there  are  such  servants 

here. 

(thirty-eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


And  over  all  this  inner  life  of  ours 

In   rippling   waves,    a   heart-horn    laughter 

flows, 

A  simple  happiness  and  sweet  content. 
How  much  there  is  that  money  cannot  huy, 
That  may  be  found  here  in  this  ancient  land; 
Things  the  heart  hungers  for,  the  pearls  of 

faith, 
Strange,   but   you'll   find   them   with   these 

Mexicans; 

But  not  for  sale,  nor  saleable  for  such 
Are  the  choice  fruits  of  simple  lives  that 

hold 

Fast  to  the  principles  our  fathers  knew, 
When  they  were  glad  and  grateful  in  their 

day 

For  rain  and  sunshine,  harvest  and  a  home, 
And  sweet  babes  growing  heav'nward  from 

the  hearth, — 
Yea,  such  things  may  be  found  in  Mexico! 


(thirty-nina) 


The    Call    of    California 


In  the  Days  of  the  Buccaneers 


Palo  Verde  broods  above 
The  never  quiet  waves, 
That  burst  in  thunder  far  within 

Her  pearl-enameled  caves, 
Alone,  upon  the  sea-birds'  ledge 

That  overhangs  the  bay, 
I  watch  the  fleet  of  fishers  creeping 

Catalina  way; 
The  lumber  schooners  warping  in, 

All  redolent  of  pine, 
The  deep-sea  freighters  at  their  docks 

Where   donkey-engines   whine; 
I  trace  the  sea-wall's  shelt'ring  arm 
That  holds  the  harbor  light 
To  cheer  the  channel  coasters  through 
The  wild  Southeaster's  night, 
And,  while  the  shining  steamers  pass 
Like  shuttles  to  and  fro, 
Before  my  eyes  there  seem  to  rise 

The  days  of  long  ago. 
Seen  through  the  veil  of  vanished  years 

How  dim  and  far  they  seem,  — 
The  treasure  ship,  the  pirate's  gold,  — 

A  half  remembered  dream! 

THE     GALLEON 

Beyond  the  bay,  Manila  bound, 

I  see  the  galleon  go, 
Deep  laden  with  her  silver  spoil 

From  mines  in  Mexico. 

(forty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Her  fat  hull  lined  with  dye-woods,  gums, 

Rude  hales  of  wrinkled  hides, 
Pearls,  ginseng,  crimson  cochineal 

And   bezoar   stones   besides. 

Athwart  the  high,  embattled  poop 

Her  stately  name  unrolled, — 
"La  Trinidad  Santisima," 

In  carven  scrolls  of  gold. 

Her  culv'rins  huge,  of  Moorish  bronze, 
Each  duly  named  and  blessed, 

Reveal  th'  armourer's  utmost  art, — 
On  each  the  royal  crest, 

High   overhead,  with   Cross  blood-red, 

The  banner  of  Castile, 
While  clad  in  shining  Milan  mail 

From  haughty  head  to  heel, 

The  blue-veined  Don  looks  proudly  down 

Along  her  castled  walls, 
Silent  save  when  to  ear-ringed  men 

His  silver  trumpet  calls. 

The  crew,  right  sturdy  villains  all, 

By  dreams  of  plunder  led; 
Bound  turban  wise  with  gaudy  scarves 

Each  scarred,  ferocious  head. 

While  mingled  with  them  friars  grey, 
Who  deem  the  world  but  dross, 

So  might  they  bear  to  heathen  lands 
The  mystery  of  the  Cross. 

(forty-one) 

' 


The    Call    of    California 


With  glorious  eyes  of  Andaluz 

And  rippling,  ebon  hair 
A  grieving  daughter  bends  beside 

Her  gray-beard  father  there 

And  stares  as  one  distraught  upon 

The  cold  and  cruel  sea, 
Or  breathes  soft  prayers  to  pitying  saints 

With  many  an  ay  de  mi! 

Sweet  Jesus,  will  she  see  once  more 

Her  sun-bright  Spanish  home 
Beyond  the  fields  of  bitter  brine, 

The  weary  leagues  of  foam? 

Don  Captain  Vasco  de  Guzman, 

A  valiant  Spaniard  he, 
Who  fears  not  any  shape  that  haunts 

The  vast,  mysterious   sea: 

The  hippocamp  with  leathern  wings, 

The  serpent-headed  whale, 
The  fearful  kraken,  slimy,  huge, 

With  scales  like  brazen  mail; 

Whose  writhing  arms  suck  down  the  ships 

Swirled  in  an  inky  tide:  — 
The  crested  dragons  spouting  flame 

On  whom  the  mermen  ride:  — 

When  sandaled  pilgrims,  whisp'ring  tell 

Of  such  foul  worms  as  these, 
That  rear  aloft  their  hideous  heads 

In  strange,  uncharted  seas, 

(forty-two) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


With  swelling  Spanish  oaths  the  Don 

Will  stun  the  doubting  ear, — 
How  all  such  scurvy  cattle  he 

Has  seen,  hut  cannot  fear; 

Not  them,  nor  all  the  roaring  fiends 

Astride  the  tempest's  blast:  — 
For  why, — he  hath  a  holy  bone 

Safe  bedded  in  the  mast! 

A  gracious  bone,  most  potent,  rare, 
From  good  San  Yago's  shrine, — 

That  foul  fiend's  self  dare  not  draw  near 
Where  that  sweet  bone  doth  shine! 

Yet  one  there  was  whose  dreaded  name 
Could  chill  the  Don  with  fear:  — 

Bill  Hawkins,  heretic  accursed, 
The  English  buccaneer! 

The  picture  shifts,  the  galleon's  gone, 

Through  mists  of  silver  spray 
And  now  the  wolfish  pirate  ship 

Comes  snuffing  up  the  bay. 

THE     PIRATES 

For  long,  long  years  the  Silver  Seas 

That  name  of  terror  knew, — 
Bill  Hawkins,  monster,  merciless, 

And  his  ferocious  crew 

.. 

Of  crop-eared  knaves,  scarred  galley  slaves, 
And  rogues  with  branded  hands, 

Gaol  fruit  to  weight  the  gallows  tree, — 
Swept  up  in  many  lands. 

(forty-three) 


The    Call    of    California 


From  Maracaibo  to  Peru, 

From  Vera  Cruz  to  Spain 
Their  crimson  crimes  unnameable 

Had  left  a  bloody  train, 

Each  scuttled  ship  a  blazing  tomb 

With  ne'er  a  breath  of  life;  — 
One  swift  grim  law  for  all, — the  plank, 

Rope,  pistol,  pike  or  knife! 

With  wolfish  eyes  they  share  the  prize, 
With  many  a  murderous  blow;  — 

The  jolly  Roger  overhead, 
The  ghastly  decks  below; 

They  broach  the  rum,  the  fiddlers  come, 

Around  and  'round  they  reel; 
They've  diced  with  Death,  the  game  is  theirs, 

With  a  dead  man  at  the  wheel! 

And  while  their  hellish  revelry 

Affronts  the  quiet  skies 
They're  off  again  for  Port  o'  Spain 

And  some  fat  galleon  prize. 

So   grew  their  glittering,  golden   spoil 

But  ah,  the  shrieks  and  tears, 
The  gurgling  groans  that  blackened  it 

Through  wild,  crime-crusted  years; 

That  treasure  wrung  from  bursting  hearts, 

From  pallid  hands  of  woe, 
By  tortures  sharp  and  exquisite 

As  only  devils  know. 

(forty -four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


But  when  at  last  the  lion's  paw 

Upon  Bill  Hawkins  fell 
The  bulk  of  their  huge  hoard  was  gone 

And  where, — no  man  could  tell. 

In  clanking  chains  they  hung  him  high 

At  Execution  Dock. 
Yet  to  the  end  he  snapped  and  cursed, 

His  heart  like  any  rock. 

He  would  not  tell,  nor  ever  told, 

He  left  no  faintest  clew, 
No  map  nor  scrap  to  guide  the  greed 

Of  his  rapacious  crew, 

Who    searched    in    vain    through    all    their 
haunts, 

On  many  a  shining  shore, 
By  cave  and  cliff,  by  tree  and  tower 

A  twelve  months'  space  or  more. 

By  rum  and  riot  some  were  slain, 

And  some  by  foul  disease, 
Some  rotted  in  the  festering  slime 

Of  dungeons  overseas; 

Upon  the  rack  some  howled  their  last, 

Too  few  the  gibbet  bore; 
To  open  sea  the  rest  won  free, 

And  there  an  oath  they  swore, 

To  seek  far  off  in  Western  seas 

Bill  Hawkin's  hidden  lair 
For  black-faced  AnaJc  in  a  dream 

Had  seen  the  treasure  there! 

(forty-five) 


The    Call    of    California 


Then  Westward  Ho!  away  they  go, 

They  cross  the  Silver  Seas 
Whose  coral  islands  oft  had  known 

Their  merry  devilries. 

On,  on  they  sail  till  warm  winds  fail, 

They  curse  the  ice  and  snow: 
Again  the  black  man  dreams  his  dream, 

And  onward  aye  they  go. 

Around  the  utmost  icy  cape 

They  wrestle  with  the  blast; 
Then  shift  their  sails  to  milder  gales 

And  trust  the  worst  is  past. 

They  sight  Peru,  "Spain's  treasure  chest,"- 

The  land  Pizarro  won, 
(It's  jeweled  temples  paved  with  gold), 

From  Incas  of  the  sun. 

Like  grinning  wolves  that  near  the  prey 

They  urge  the  ship  along; 
The  rum  beside  the  mast  all  day, 

All  night  the  rover's  song. 

Now  clear  and  cold  like  silver  spires 

The  peaks  of  Mexico 
Where  Cortez  found  a  Spanish  cure 

For  Montezuma's  woe; 

And  found  withal  such  shining  pearls, 
Such  emerald  stones  and  gold, 

That  every  pirate  sucks  his  cheeks 
Whene'er  the  tale  is  told. 

(forty-six) 


Other  Poems  of  the  West 


Through  windless  seas  of  sodden  grass 

Most  evilly  they  fare, 
Till  sails  with  rotting  mold  are  green 

As  any  mermaid's  hair, 
Till  Hawkins  and  his  gold  they  curse 

And  curse  each  other  there. 

Then  California's  golden  shore 
With  wondering  joy  they  view, 

The  friendly  Indian's  flashing  oar 
Beside  his  swift  canoe; 

The  fair  green  hills  whose  silver  rills 

Run  singing  to  the  sea 
Through  fragrant  meadows  bright  with  bloom 

And  wild  bird's  minstrelsy. 

His  dream  holds  yet,  the  signs  are  met, 

Black  Anak  grins  with  glee; 
Lo!   on  the  right  St.  Peter's  cove, 

St.  Catharine  on  the  lee. 

Down  come  the  sails,  the  anchor  plumps, 

The  rum  goes  gaily  'round, 
Were  never  men  more  fain  to  see 

Their  shadows  on  the  ground! 

With  panting  strokes  they  win  the  beach, 

Th'  Ethiop  leads  the  way: 
Their  hot  breaths  whistle  at  his  back, 

His  thick  lips  seem  to  pray. 

Now  here,  now  there,  they  search  and  swear. 

God,  how  they  ramp  and  rave; 
Have  they  been  diddled  by  a  dream, — 

Then  Christ  that  black  man  save! 

(forty-seven) 


The    Call    of    California 


With  frenzied  hands  they  hurl  the  sands, 

Rocks,  shells  and  vines  apart, 
In  every  eye  the  lust  for  gold, 

Murder  in  each  foul  heart. 

At  last  their  streaming  toil  unstops 

A  huge,  black  yawning  hole; 
So  murky,  deep  and  deadly  cold 

That  fear  grips  every  soul; 

But  not  for  long, — they  strike  a  flint 

The  spark  leaps  out  and  there 
They  eye  the  ghastly  proofs  that  mark 

Bill  Hawkin's  secret  lair! 

A  shattered  skull,  a  rusted  blade, 

A  shapeless  pile  of  bones,— 
At  which  some  spat  and  crossed  themselves 

And  spake  in  milder  tones: 

Then  swore  more  foully,  passed  the  rum, 

Thrust  forth  a  torch  and  saw 
What  they  had  scourged  the  seas  to  gain 

And  broken  every  law. 

Deep  sunken  in  the  cavern's  mold 

The  smoking  lights  reveal 
An  ancient  chest  of  Spanish  oak 

With  bands  and  bolts  of  steel; 

Upon  whose  cover,  red  with  rust, 

Some  dim  device  is  seen; 
A  Latin  scrawl,  a  helmet  plumed, 

With  ramping  beasts  between; 

(forty -eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


At  sight  of  which  the  gloomy  vault 
Resounds  with  oaths  and  cheers, — 

Forgotten  then  their  scars  and  wounds 
Their  hunger,  cold  and  fears. 

Leaps  forth  the  dreamer  Anak  then 
With  hoarse  unhuman  yell — 

A  tongueless  eunuch  huge  and  black, — 
Tusked  like  a  fiend  from  Hell, 

Heaves  up  a  mighty  bowlder  there, 
Bursts  oak  and  steel  in  twain 

And  lo!  the  long  sought  glittering  hoard, 
Culled  from  the  Spanish  Main! 

THE     TREASURE 

They  do  not  dream,  the  torches  gleam 

On  gold  and  jewels  there; 
Such  gems  as  high-born  Spanish  dames 

On  cold,  proud  bosoms  wear; 

Sequins,  pistoles,  broad  gold  doubloons, 

Dull  burnished  silver  bars, 
Carbuncles,  emeralds,  diamonds  bright 

That  sparkle  like  the  stars; 

Pieces  of  eight,  rich  silver  plate, 
Fair  pearls  like  shining  tears, 

With  many  a  dainty  trinket  torn 
From  shrieking  beauty's  ears; 

Brave  rings  with  fingers  in  them  yet, 
All  fleshless,  black  and  dried  — 

A  grisly  harvest,  cutlass  reaped 
From  blue-veined  hands  of  pride; 

(forty -nine) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


Bejeweled  blades  of  damascene 
From  Spain's  dark,  bloody  sod 

And  great  rose  rubies,  once  the  eyes 
Of  some  tusked,  snouted  god; 

Gilt  crucifixes,  candlesticks, 

Basons  of  beaten  gold 
And  chalices  with  diamond  studs 

Lapped  in  a  cloudy  fold 
Of  laces  wrought  by  pallid  nuns 

In  Spanish  convents  cold. 

With  furious  haste  such  splendid  spoil 

They  heap  together  there 
Would  buy  thrones,  virtues,  souls  of  men, — 

St.  Peter's  ivory  chair! 

Yet  when  each  one  his  share  surveys 

It  shows  so  mean  and  small, 
In  every  envious  heart  is  hatched 

The  will  to  win  it  all. 

Greed  shows  its  hissing,  venomed  head, 
Bursts  forth  each  ancient  hate; 

Not  one  can  meet  another's  eye 
Nor  trust  his  trusted  mate. 

Like  wolves  they  snarl,  like  foul  fiends  roar 

Around  that  gloomy  cave, 
Nor  hear  the  whistling  wind  without, 

Nor  heed  the  lapping  wave. 

Each  tears  his  fellow's  cursing  throat 

Each  lunging  blade  is  red; 
Till   'round   that  mocking  treasure   lie 

But  dying  men  or  dead. 

(fifty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


In  crimson  pools  that  slowly  creep 

Along  the  trampled  mire 
A  little  space  the  torches  hiss 

Like  serpents  ringed  with  fire; 

Then  darkness  seals  each  staring  eye 

In  that  unhallowed  grave, — 
Their  requiem  but  the  wailing  wind, 

The  moaning  of  the  wave. 

Awhile  the  keen-eyed  buzzard  wheels 

Above  the  cavern's  door, 
And  horny  crabs  slide  in  and  out 

Across  the  fetid  floor; 

The  gaunt  coyote  snuffing  comes 

Then  softly  slinks  away, 
While  slowly  rots  the  pirate  ship 

Upon  the  lonely  bay. 

The  years  slip  by,  then  comes  a  day, 

Tense,  boding,  hot  and  still, 
No  sound  is  heard  from  beast  or  bird 

Along  the  hazy  hill; 

In  whirls  of  dust  the  dry  leaves  dance 
Beside  the  listening  shore, — 

How  shrunk  with  fear  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
How  loud  the  ocean's  roar! 

Then  suddenly  the  wooded  hills 
The  earth's  firm  pillars  rock 

And  shuddering  peaks  as  in  a  fit 
Their  knees  together  knock; 

(fifty-one) 


The    Call    of    California 


The  ancient  cliffs  plunge  in  the  deep, 
A  thousand  thunders  sound, — 

Till  where  the  sea-fowl  fed  her  young 
But  boiling  waves  are  found! 

Gone  is  the  pirate's  cave,  their  gold 

Is  scattered  far  and  wide 
Along  the  careless  ocean's  floor 

The  sport  of  every  tide. 

Some  little  time  their  polished  bones 
Are  strewn  along  the  shore 

Then  from  the  memory  of  man 
They  pass  for  evermore. 


Calvary 


|HEN  our  dear  Lord  is  deadly  sorrow 

bound 
blood  and  water  from  his  heart's  deep 

wound, 

A  little  lad  stood,  boy  like  in  the  shade — 
By  the  rude  Cross  and  Royal  Victim  made — 
And  whirled  his  toy  around  in  thoughtless 

glee 

Not  knowing  Him  who  bled  for  you  and  me: 
A  bird  sprang  twittering  from  the  grassless 

sod 

And  perched  upon  the  Tree  that  bore  our  God, 
Singing  its  sweet  song  to  the  fading  day 
While  Jesus'  heart  blood  dripped  full  fast 

away. 

(fifty-two) 


Other    Poems     of    the    West 


Old  Mexico 

OLD  Mexico  of  the  long  ago, 
Land  of  the  silver  rills, 
The  vanished  centuries  linger  yet 
Amid  thy  foot-worn  hills. 

From  thy  snows  and  pines,  thy  dark,  deep 
mines, 

Down  to  thy  tropic  sea 
There  is  never  a  thing  a  man  might  ask 

That  may  not  be  found  in  thee! 

Silver  and  gold  in  thy  ridges  rolled, 
Health  from  thy  snow-capped  peaks, 

Beautiful  women  with  flashing  eyes 
And  sun-kissed  olive  cheeks; 

Culture  that  comes  from  the  Spanish  Moors 

Of  a  thousand  years  ago; 
And  customs  that  come  from  the  yellow  East 

But  how— no  man  may  know. 

Faces  as  fair  as  ever  were  seen 

In  any  rose  gardens  of  earth; 
And     the    slant-eyed,    squat-nosed     Mongol 
breed, — 

What  land  first  saw  their  birth? 

Hieroglyphs  older  than  Norsemen's  runes, — 

Palaces  ancient  as  Tyre, 
Where  the  smiling  child  of  the  sun  today 

Bakes  his  corn-cakes  on  the  fire. 

Romance  and  mystery  over  it  all, 

Mystery  always  and  ever, 
Old  as  the  eldest  of  Egypt's  gods,— 

Will  the  light  come  ever,  never? 
(fifty-three) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


The  Death  Pool  at  La  Brea 

QO  song  birds  hover  about  its  edge, 
Where    sad    winds    sigh    through    the 
stiff,  brown  sedge; 

No  fleet  wings  brush  with  a  wild  bird's  grace 
The  sullen  tide  of  the  Death  Pool's  face. 

But  ever  it  lies  there  still  and  cold, 
Wickedly  waiting,  and  old — so  old; 
Chilling  the  warmth  of  the  genial  sky 
Like  a  Gorgon's  face  with  its  lidless  eye, 
The  haunt  of  horror,  a  place  of  fear, 
Through  many  a  dumb,  unnumbered  year. 

Up  from  the  cold,  dark  chambers  of  death 
Oozes  its  pestilent,  bubbling  breath; 
Wrapped  in  the  folds  of  its  stiffened  slime, 
The  bones  of  monarchs  of  ancient  time — 
Of  huge,  strange  creatures  of  monstrous  girth, 
Lords  of  the  primitive  manless  earth! 
What    secrets    locked    in    that    deep,    dark 

grave, 
What  wonders  hid  'neath  the  thick,  black 

wave, 
What  dreadful  shapes  here  have  mirrored 

been 

That  never  by  human  eye  were  seen! 
When,  under  the  old,  old  primal  law 
Of  bloody  muzzle  and  crimson  claw, 
The  saber-tooth  and  the  great  cave-bear 
Tore  the  trumpeting  mastodon  there; 
While    green-eyed    dragons    with    leathern 

wings 
Screamed  o'er  the  strife  of  the  jungle  kings. 

(fifty-four) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Mangos  de  Manila 


de  Manila"— 

Hark  to  the  mellow  call, 
"Mangos  de  Manila," 

Most  luscious  fruit  of  all. 

"Mangos  de  Ma-nee-la"  — 
I  stop  him  in  the  shade, 

The  Aztec,  brown  "frutero," 
And  soon  the  sale  is  made. 

"Son  muy  dulces,  jefe," 

Is  what  he  says  to  me, 
"They're  very  sweet  and  juicy"  — 

The  truth  we  soon  shall  see. 

No  mango  forks  are  handy, 
So  peel  them  with  your  knife; 

Say,  stranger,  did  you  ever 
Eat  better  in  your  life? 

The  slippery  fruit  a-dropping 
Great  gouts  of  liquid  gold:  — 

Just  shut  your  eyes  and  swallow 
And  dream  of  days  of  old. 

You  hear  the  fountain  tinkling, 
A  strange  speech  meets  your  ear, 

The  mango  on  your  palate 
Brings  it  all  to  you  here. 

It  somehow  draws  you  nearer 
To  India  and  the  East 

(fifty-five) 


The     Call     of     California 


To  Afric's  tawny  jungles 
A  thousand  years  at  least. 

"Mangos  de  Manila," 

A  golden  link  to  all 
Of   good   Haroun-al-Raschid, 

And  muezzin's  plaintive  call, — 

Arabian  Nights  and  hasheesh, 
With  all  our  childhood  knew 

Of  tales  from  land  of  faery 
Broidered  with  gold  and  blue. 

The  harem's  marble  lattice, 
Where  musky  south  winds  sigh 

In  "Mangos  de  Ma-nee-la" 
Our  swart  frutero's  cry. 


Grief 


T  a  sunken  lake's  edge  in  the  dreary 

^ night, 

[n  a  cypress   silvered  by  the  dead  moon's 

light, 

With  rain-chilled  nest  and  heart  all  desolate, 
A  widowed  dove  sits,  mourning  for  her  mate. 


Kismet 

WAS  Kismet  that  ever  I  knew  him; 

'Twas  Kismet  that  first  drew  me  to 
him, 
And  for  Kismet  I  loved  him  and  slew  him! 

(fifty-six) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


A  Norther  in  Veracruz 


the   bluff   and   boisterous   North 
Wind 

Comes  to  woo  the  Sunny  South 
And  a  thousand  roaring  thunders 
Are  the  kisses  of  his  mouth; 

When  the  sea  birds  seek  a  shelter 
In  some  battered,  splintered  rock 

And  the  walls  of  Juan  Ullua 
Tremble  'neath  the  surge's  shock; 

When  the  sails  are  blown  to  tatters, 

Timbers  start  in  every  joint, 
And  the  grey,  bare-headed  helmsman 

"Holds  her  down  another  point," 

When  the  booming  winds  of  heaven 

Heap  the  surges  o'er  the  deck 
And  the  tiger  leaping  lightnings 

Show  the  crushed  and  battered  wreck; 

When  the  shark-toothed  reefs  are  grinning. 

Waiting  for  their  wounded  prey; 
As  the  seething,  rushing  waters 

Urge  the  doomed  ships  down  the  bay; 

When  the  demons  of  the  ocean 

Grip  the  goblins  of  the  sky 
And  the  devils  to  the  landward 

Fling  their  sandy  arms  on  high; 

When  the  rain  like  Mauser  bullets 
Hisses  from  the  inky  gloom; 

(fifty-seven) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


And  the  "Pale  Horse,"  Death  bestridden, 
Gallops  where  the  breakers  boom; 

When  the  sailors  pray  the  Virgin, 
And  the  captain  makes  a  vow, 

And  the  fisher  boats  are  scudding 
Anywhere  and  anyhow; 

When  amid  the  Gulf's  wild  fury 
And  the  screams  from  whitened  lips 

Coral  reefs  are  ground  to  powder 
As  they  grind  the  groaning  ships; 

When  the  devil  takes  the  tiller 
And  his  demons  rule  the  deck 

And  the  ooze  from  bloody  corpses 
Streams  and  reddens  o'er  the  wreck; 

When  each  skipper  out  to  seaward 
Trembles  in  his  sodden  shoes 

Then  you  know  we  have  a  "Norther," 
Southward  here  in  Veracruz. 


(fifty-eight) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


At  the  Ruins  of  Mitla 

H  MOURNFUL  hollow   in  the  old  grey 
hills 
Where  never  a  bird  its  glad  sweet  music 

trills, 

We  shiver  in  the  sunlight  for  a  spell 
Still  broods  o'er  Mictlan, — gloomy  mouth  of 
Hell! 

The  narrow  streamlet  as  of  old  runs  on, 
But  they  who  built  these  palaces  are  gone; 
They  came,  they  went  nor  left  one  word 

behind, 
We  search  and  dig  but  only  questions  find. 

The  air  is  chill  with  voices  of  the  dead, 
But  not  a  word  we  catch  of  all  they  said;  — 
That  slant-eyed,  squat-hipped  folk  of  ancient 

day, 
Long  since  returned  to  primal  dust  and  clay. 

We  bow  our  heads  to  pass  the  temple  door 
Where  the  plumed  high-priest  strode  erect 

before; 

Each  monolith  still  fitted  to  its  groove 
Which    time    nof    earthquake    one    hair's 

breadth  could  move. 

A  pigmy  race  of  men  of  mighty  dreams 
Reared  these  quaint  carven  walls,  these  pon 
derous  beams, 
Wrought  patiently  in  tireless  feeble  strength 

(fifty-nine) 


The    Call    of    Californi 


Till  the  huge  capstone  lay  in  place  at  length, 
Showing  through  all  the  centuries  it  should 

last 
How    here    some    nameless    Indian   Angelo 

passed. 

#      *      * 

Glad  that  we  came,  we  gladly  turn  away 
Back  to  the  wholesome  hreath  of  living  day; 
The  long  whip  cracks,  the  creaking  coach 

appears 
To  bear  us  from  these  ghosts  of  weird,  wan 

years. 


In  the  Cathedral  Towers 
at  Dawn 

the  cathedral  towers  I  stand  at  dawn, 
The  slumber  breaking  bells  have  but 
egun 

Their  silver  clashing  and  the  dallying  day 
Comes  slowly  traveling  upward  from  the  sea. 

Beneath  me  all  the  streets  are  half  astir 
With  pious  life, — servants  and  served  alike, 
Close  hooded  from  the  sharp  insidious  air 
Bend  churchward,  heavenward,  by  a  weary 

way, 

Thorn  set,  tear  wet,  by  sin  and  sorrow  urged. 
Below  there  toil-worn  mothers  faint  and  wan 

(sixty) 


Other    Poems    of    the    West 


Suckling    at    withered    breasts    their    puny 

babes; 
And    street-worn    men    with    poverty    their 

bride, 

Wake  foodless  in  this  city  of  the  sun: 
While  others,  sons  of  Fortune's  fickle  smile, 
Who  never  toiled  nor  hungered,  calmly  sleep 
And  over  all  the  mercy  of  our  God! 

Merrily  ring  the  great  Cathedral  bells 
Over  the  life-sick  multitude  below; 
No  voice  for  them  calling  from  airy  steeps 
Of  heights  celestial,  bidding  them  return 
Out,  onward,  forward,  upward  to  their  God. 

O'erhead  the  beauty  of  the  morning  stars 
Down  there  the  endless  misery  of  man! 
The  fresh  winds  blow  from  out  the  great  salt 

sea 
And  down  from  scarped  and  thunder  riven 

peaks 

But  not  for  them,  nor  any  voice  of  morn 
Comes  caroling  from  dewy  meadow  grass. 

Alone  and  poor,  poor  and  alone  they  live 
Hopeless  and  songless  in  this  bright  sun- 
land, 

And  die  at  last  sad-faced  and  hollow-eyed 
Mantled  in  Misery.    Brethren,  pray  for  such. 


(sixty-one) 


The    Call    of    California 

Titian's  "Entombment  of 
Christ" 

(Tzintzuntzan) 

"N    old   grey   church   all   full   of   other 

years, 

knee-worn  pavement  stained  by  bitter 
tears; 

Sunlight  without  but  graveyard  gloom  within 
The    house    where    God    forgives    His   chil 
dren's  sin. 

A  charnel  odor  loads  the  still,  cold  air 
As  if  the  spirits  of  the  dead  were  there, 
Until  awe-stricken  by  the  half-lit  gloom 
We  shudder  as  though  shut  within  a  tomb! 

But  suddenly  a  window  opens  wide, 
And  afternoon  pours  in  "its  golden  tide 
Showing  us  there  upon  the  old  stone  wall 
Of  Titian's  genius  masterpiece  of  all. 

A  pallid  Christ  all  mutely  tombward  borne 
By  faithful  hearts  so  dumb  and  sorrow-torn, 
A  few  disciples  there,  by  fear  late  driven — 
A  Magdalene  and  Mother — anguish  riven. 

O!   pallid  Christ,  bruised  by  the  Cross  and 

Thorn, 

O!  faithful  hearts,  no  longer  may  ye  mourn, 
The  dear  Lord  sleepeth,  soon  to  wake  again 
And  set  His  kingdom  in  the  hearts  of  men! 

(sixty-two) 


THIS  B\)OK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAY 


!G  2? 


1937 


KIJ1 


LD  21-100m-8,'34 


Syracuse,  N.  Y. 
PAT.JU.21,  I90t 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CD^bS3flfllE 


14236 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


